


Daydream, Nightmare

by theonsfavouritetoy



Series: A Song of Our Own (Until Springtime) [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post GOT, a little fluff among the whole apocalyptic scenario, not too much tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-05 12:14:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17918609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: The days have started to get longer, gradually, almost unnoticeable. It is still cold, but most of them don’t seem to feel it.





	Daydream, Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to part 5 of ASOIAF Rarepair Week, prompt: Day // Night
> 
> This is a little more lighthearted than the rest so far. Enjoy the short moment of relief^^'

Theon watches Jon from his window, the room Jon had occupied now somehow officially Theon’s. He watches him down in the courtyard, speaking with the men carrying in a never ending supply of logs, watches him thank them for their help. 

The days have started to get longer, gradually, almost unnoticeable. It is still cold, but most of them don’t seem to feel it. Theon feels it. It’s as if the chill from the Dreadfort has permanently settled into his bones, as if he’s cursed to never get warm again. Except for the nights. 

Jon says something to the smith and they laugh, then he marches off in direction of the kitchens. He’s not allowed to work with the men, Sansa watches him like a hawk. The only thing she tolerates him doing is walking around and spread encouragement. People need to see their king. Jon hates it. 

He wanders the castle, together with Sansa or alone, he listens to everyone’s trifles, he goes over Sansa’s endless lists of what there is to do. Theon misses him terribly. Most of the time he spends alone, afraid of the men and their suspicious looks. He’s still the turncloak, despite everything. The freak. 

There’s still some work Theon can do. He washes the clothes of everyone, piece after piece, never more than he’s able to hang up at once inside the warmer rooms. He makes beds. His and Sansa’s. Most of the men sleep in the new Great Hall, the first thing Sansa insisted on rebuilding. All of them eat there too, twice a day for now. 

Jon has his own room, his old room. The one he’d slept in before the world froze. He’s not in there often, all day he runs his feet off, seeming so sick of lying down they have a hard time getting him to be careful with his energy. And every night he comes to Theon. 

Everytime Theon sees him during the day he seems to be doing so well, so much his self, so much like Jon Snow. He smiles politely at the tired women, he encourages the children to pick up sticks and play, he drinks with the men in the evening. But no one can see how much it costs him, to hold up the facade. 

Theon sees. They don’t talk much when Jon comes to him, exhausted from the day, exhausted from being the king. It’s only Theon who gets to see the mask slip away. He’s the weakest of them all. Jon doesn’t have to be strong with him, doesn’t have to pretend. 

Theon is sure Sansa knows. He sees it in the way she looks at Jon when she thinks no one is paying attention, worry in her gaze. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps everyone away from them once Jon has retired for the night. Theon is grateful. Those times are precious. 

He can take care of Jon. It’s what he’s good at, caring for someone, serving them. It’s so good to have that again, even better when that someone is not eagerly waiting for him to make a mistake, or inventing mistakes. Or when that someone isn’t mocking him, or trying to build him back together with tough love. Theon still grieves for Yara. 

But she’s never really needed him. Not like Jon needs him. It feels good to be needed. He’d do everything for Jon. He lays out his clothes for the next day, he brushes his hair, he listens to Jon’s silences, he holds his hand when the dreams make him cry out in the night. 

Jon hadn’t wanted it at first. Had accused Theon of taking him for another master, of humiliating himself for him. They’d fought that night, loud and bitter, until Jon had said the unthinkable.  _ If you think you can hide behind me like you hid behind Bolton, think again. Act like a man, Theon.  _ He’d thrown him out. Had ignored his knocks, his pleas, not half an hour later.  _ I’m so sorry. Please open the door. I didn’t mean it like that.  _

The worst thing is, Jon had been right, in a way. It’s not the same, it could never be. He trusts Jon. But Theon does like the clear structure, feels safer when he has chores to fulfil. Commands are better than requests. They mean he doesn’t have to decide things for himself. 

Jon had come back the next evening.  _ I need you, _ he’d said, and Theon had opened the door, feeling dizzy when seeing the relief on Jon’s face, when feeling his hands on his own, in his hair, pulling him close, kissing him harder this time, lips pressed together for a long time. 

“Don’t you want to come out with me on the morrow?” Jon asks, not for the first time. As always Theon shakes his head and Jon sighs, taking his hand. Carefully he peels off the glove, stroking Theon’s fingers. “Why not?”

“People look,” Theon mutters. “I’m not one of them.”

“You are. You brought men. You came home. You were by my side when  _ they _ came. And,” Jon adds, mouth pulling into a frown, “they have to get used to it anyway.”

“Used to it?” Theon asks. Jon makes it sound so easy. 

“Seeing you. With me. There’s a name for what you are.”

“Turncloak?” Theon tries, “freak?”

“You know what I mean.” Jon pouts, looking ten years younger all of a sudden, not like the tired king with the lined face he’s become. 

Theon knows, at least he thinks he does. A new name. A new thing for people to refer to him. He doesn’t deserve it. And still he feels something welling up in his throat, something like happiness. It’s so long ago. 

“What about Sansa?” he asks.

“She’s the Lady of Winterfell. The She-Wolf. The last Stark. She is a queen in her own right, she doesn’t need the title of…” Jon swallows, squeezing Theon’s hand. “Of Queen Consort.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just call me  _ Queen _ Consort,” Theon says, eyebrows raised. 

For a moment Jon looks absolutely puzzled, and then he laughs, like he laughed when they were young. Theon looks at him, the light in his eyes, the moment of lightheartedness, wishing he could capture it forever. 

But nothing is ever easy. Nothing good lasts. The days get longer, and Jon gets worse. 

**Author's Note:**

> There, everything goes to shit again. Well, not everything. Some good things last forever. For some people. Huh. 
> 
> I would be overjoyed to hear what you think of all this. ;)


End file.
